


Jar II

by LiquidFix



Series: Jar [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidFix/pseuds/LiquidFix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes a purchase Sherlock <i>does</i> approve of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jar II

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://liquidfix.livejournal.com/13923.html). Although categorised as Sherlock/John, it is implied and not directly stated.

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, picking up the little jar and peering at the label.

John looked over his shoulder and swigged from a bottle of cool water he’d lifted from the fridge “I thought you’d like to try it.”

Leaning back against the counter, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. At the table, Sherlock was holding the marmalade in both hands and turning it over, the small samples of what looked to be singed fibres that he’d been working on momentarily forgotten.

“Well don’t say thank you, then.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead, he twisted the lid free from the jar and dipped his small finger into the dark orange substance, putting it to his tongue delicately to taste it.

The marmalade had been a spontaneous purchase - it wasn’t an item that was on the weekly shopping list and neither was it something that they normally kept, but when he’d been out on his break from work during the day, the little jar with the blue checked lid had caught his attention while queuing to buy his own lunch and he’d thought that maybe Sherlock would like some. If nothing else, it would stop the detective from going through his honey (which despite his claims was ‘inferior’, had not stopped him from dipping into it every now and again).

“How does it taste?” Asked John, placing the bottle back in the fridge. The label was mostly in French; a tiny sticker with English on it listing the ingredients stuck on the lid. It had looked good though; dark, thick and full of shred.

Sherlock put the lid back on the jar and ran his tongue over his lips. “Spicy. Do you want to try some?”

“Hmm? No, it’s fine. I got it for you.”

Finally turning to look at him, Sherlock’s face was a picture. The expression he wore was not one John was used to seeing, as his lips pouted slightly and twisted to one side while his nose creased upwards, almost as though he were squinting into the sun.

Thinking that his casual refusal to share the marmalade had offended the man, John nervously smiled at him. “It’s a gift, Sherlock. Or a distraction from my honey, whatever way you want to look at it.”

Sherlock turned away and he glared at the jar in his hands, his brows drawing down into a frown.

“What?”

The expression on Sherlock’s face clarified itself and became one of pure confusion, as though the item he held was some sort of ancient artefact carved in unknown runes that he couldn’t understand.

“Aren’t you supposed to give someone a gift if they’ve done something, or to mark an occasion?”

“It’s a jar of marmalade Sherlock.” John said, a little aghast that the detective couldn’t comprehend why he had been given it. “Not a pearl necklace or a ticket to the Bahamas.”

Placing the jar on the table between the fibre samples, Sherlock folded his arms and stared at it. “Flowers, then.”

“Sorry, flowers?”

“If you buy someone a gift on impulse, it should be flowers.”

“Why would you want flowers?” John replied, confused.

“I wouldn’t. But why would I want marmalade either?”

Shaking his head, John folded his arms over his chest. “I was out getting my lunch, I seen it sitting next to the till and I thought you’d like it. That’s all there is to it.”

John had honestly never seen such a reaction over such a small gesture before. The last time he’d gotten Sarah something, she’d beamed at him and gently touched his forearm, kissing him on the cheek as though the bouquet of flowers (of _course_ it had been flowers) had been coated in gold leaf. Sherlock, however, (who was now cradling the jar as though it were made of delicate china and would shatter if he held it too hard) looked as though he had just been slapped in the face.

“Look, you don’t need to pretend that you like it.”

Sherlock looked up at him again, confusion still plain on his face. “I _do_ like it,” He said slowly. “I just don’t understand why you got it for me.”

“It cost two quid, Sherlock.” John replied, fidgeting a little.

“That’s not a reason for buying it.”

“I’ve told you, I thought you’d like it. And you do. Why are you making such a fuss over it?”

“Because no one’s ever gotten me marmalade before.” He replied, a serious tone to his voice.

John barked a laugh out nervously, unwinding his arms from where he had wrapped his arms around his chest. “And I’ll bet no one has ever bought you flowers before either!”

He hadn’t meant to say such a thing, and he regretted it almost immediately but it was more-than-likely true. Apart from it being an unwritten rule that men were not meant to be given flowers, the subject of Sherlock’s romantic tendencies, past and present, was something he knew to be off-limit. Not that that had been the intention behind the marmalade, because as far as John was aware there were no love poems about the preserve. It was _just_ marmalade. Sherlock liked strong-tasting foods; he took his coffee black and ate dark chocolate like it was going out of fashion. Cheap marmalade was usually more sweet than it was bitter, so when John had seen little jar with the French label, he’d assumed that the detective would enjoy it.

The thing was, Sherlock had said he liked the taste of it, yet he still looked upset. Not like when he’d given Sarah the bouquet. She’d smiled at him for the rest of the evening after placing them in a little vase of frosted glass. Then they’d chatted; mostly about work, but it had been nice and she’d genuinely appreciated the gesture - after all, every girl liked flowers. Maybe Sarah didn’t, but if that was the case, she certainly didn’t show it.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John said after a while, an uneasy feeling settling over him.

“Sorry for what?” Sherlock replied quietly.

“For upsetting you.”

The look of confusion on Sherlock’s face deepened at the statement. “I’m not upset.”

“Yes you are. I mean, look at you! You look like you want to smash the damn thing over my head!”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the table and stood slowly, his hands finding their way into his trouser pockets. “I don’t understand what you expect me to do with it.”

“Eat it?” Replied John, his face twisting in bewilderment. “You can smear yourself with it and run around the flat naked if you want, but warn me first so I can put a paper bag over my head.”

Sherlock’s stoic expression softened for a moment. “That would be a waste of good marmalade.”

“I’m glad you think so highly of it.”

“Why?”

John chewed the inside of his mouth. “What do you mean ‘why’?”

Sherlock turned to him, leaning against the table. “Why are you glad I like it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.” Replied the taller man. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve given me a jar of marmalade in the first place.”

John shifted uneasily. Truthfully, he had no idea why he’d gotten his flatmate a jar of marmalade. There had been instances when he’d been out doing grocery shopping where he’d made sure to lift a pack of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits or something along those lines, but he’d certainly never bought a gift for him just for the sake of it, not like with Sarah. In the back of his mind, he knew he did such things because it was expected of him. You bought small gifts for your partner because it was ‘what you did’. Yes, when it came to birthdays and other anniversaries you might put some thought into what you bought for them, but it was normal to get a little something now and again, wasn’t it? A little rule of society.

It was stupid, really, and John knew it. Flowers were already dead when you bought them. They’d sit in a vase for a couple of weeks at the most before they became more of a nuisance than something to be admired. Then they’d end up in the bin where they would promptly be forgotten. Flowers were also something that required very little thought and were about as impersonal as it could get when it came to giving a gift. No one ever asked for some because who in their right mind would ever want them? They were useless; their only purpose to be watched as they slowly rotted.

And John had known this when he’d gotten them for Sarah. He’d felt stupid about giving them to her too, just as he felt stupid working at the surgery when he didn’t particularly like it. He felt stupid when he had to laugh at the flaccid jokes she dropped into conversation, because the more John reacted to them, the more she told. He couldn’t _not_ laugh though. It would have been rude, would have hurt her feelings. Not like when Sherlock tore strips from a client over their own foolishness and they ended up in floods of tears. The man’s immunity to the laws of polite society was something John would never admit to being deeply envious of, but he was.

He was jealous that Sherlock existed without feeling a stab of shame every time he lost his temper in the middle of the street to the point where it attracted an audience, or called someone out on a poorly-disguised lie that then caused those around them immeasurable hurt - things that you were not supposed to do, things that John tried hard _not_ to do even though secretly, he enjoyed watching Sherlock verbally abuse a stranger or humiliate someone at Scotland Yard. Sometimes he pictured himself doing it in place of the detective, and sometimes he would snap at the man, berate him for doing the very things that John longed to do himself but was never brave enough to carry out.

He never would be either, John realised, watching as Sherlock picked up the marmalade again and took the lid off for another taste. He worked at the surgery because the public expected him to. He dated Sarah because you were supposed to have a nice girlfriend, and Sarah _was_ nice, even if she was a little dreary (who wasn’t, compared to Sherlock?). Then he’d probably get married and have kids, because that’s what you were meant to do to. It was no different from buying flowers, really.

Predictable and boring, just like when Sarah had kissed him as she had accepted the bouquet. He’d known when he bought them that she’d do such a thing. Not like with the marmalade, because although he’d known that Sherlock probably wouldn’t say thank you (and he still hadn’t), he hadn’t expected such a bizarre reaction from the other man.

“So, what do you want in return?” Sherlock asked, licking marmalade from his thumb.

“What? Nothing!” Replied John, taken aback.

“You don’t expect me to return the gesture?”

“Well, no.”

Sherlock looked confused again. “Then why give me it?”

“For you to do with it what you want. Eat it, bin it. I don’t really care, Sherlock.”

A pause again, before the younger man held the jar out to him.

“What if I want to share it with you.”

And John didn’t know what to say to that, because no one had ever offered to share their gift with him, just as it was obvious that no one had ever given Sherlock a present before. Granted, you couldn’t really split a bunch of flowers in half, but such a proposal wasn’t part of the normal rules of society. Then again, Sherlock operated outside of those rules.

Taking what was being offered, John turned it over in his hands and watched as Sherlock broke out into a pleased smile.

“That’s better.” He said, stuffing his hands back into his pockets and rocking back slightly on his heels.

John stared at it, the smile infecting him. “Hnn.” He remarked, tossing it up a little before sitting it down on the countertop next to the bottle of water.

“What?”

“I don’t really like marmalade,” Said John “But if you want to share it, that’s fine.”


End file.
